


Put Myself Together Again

by Farfallama



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Farfallama/pseuds/Farfallama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is walking alone in the forest when she is attacked by one of the hundred.  Who else but Bellamy would come to her rescue?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Myself Together Again

**Author's Note:**

> TW: References to past rape and attempted rape. I really don't want to trigger anyone!
> 
> This is my first foray into The 100 fandom and Bellarke. I hope I did it justice.

Clarke is returning from the gravesite, lost in thought in the pale light of dawn. Her feet step over roots and grass mechanically, leading her back to camp while her mind is miles away. The peace she finds is short lived, but she feels guilty when she goes without visiting the fallen for too long.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A lost princess with no way to get home,” a sneering voice calls. Clarke’s head shoots up, but she can’t locate where the words are coming from.

A figure steps out from behind a tree, and she recognizes Walt, one of the harder criminals. She knows that he was imprisoned for multiple rapes, and he’d had a particular type- young, pretty girls from Phoenix. Clarke’s hand automatically goes to her hip, where she had taken to carrying a knife, but her hand meets air and she realizes she left it under her pillow in her tent.

“That’s right, a pretty princess all alone in the woods. When they find your body, they’ll figure it was the Grounders. After all, no one would want to be banished after Murphy, so who would dare step out of line?” Walt stalked closer, enough so that Clarke could see the wild, almost desperate look in his eyes. It made her nervous, but also reassured her; desperate people were more likely to make mistakes. It might be the difference between life and death.

“We might be in the woods, but we’re not far from camp. If I scream, they’ll come running,” Clarke said, eyes darting around for a sign of life, or even just a large rock or stick to use as a weapon.

Walt removed a knife from his back pocket and examined it for a bit. Clarke noted that he seemed comfortable with the sharp metal, not afraid of it like some of the hundred were, and felt her fear ratchet up a notch, “But you’re not going to scream, are you princess? You’re going to do exactly what I say, and you’re going to start by taking off your shirt.”

Clarke steels herself and her hands travel to the hem of her shirt, gripping it tightly. She pulls the material off and thrusts it at Walt, distracting him for a moment. Clarke takes off running, ignorant of the leaves that cut her as she dashes through the trees or the chill in the air from being only in a bra.

Suddenly, the air is pulled from her lungs with a grunt and she hits the ground hard. She scrabbles for a moment, fingers digging desperately into the dirt as Walt drags her back and around. Clarke glares up into his face, defiant, and his answering grin in manic. 

“Clever trick back there princess, but not clever enough. But you’re a fighter. That’s good; it’s so much more fun when they try to fight back,” Walt sneers and lifts the knife. Clarke winces when it arcs down, but feels no pain, only hears a snap. Walt’s cut through the center of her bra, leaving her breasts only slightly covered. This bareness snaps Clarke into action. Leveraging her hips, she manages to buck enough to slide out from underneath Walt. Finally allowed to regain her breath, she lets loose a shrill scream, definitely loud enough to alert the guard that something is wrong. She turns back to Walt whose face is a mask of fury, knife held in a white-knuckled grip. He lunges once more, but Clarke is ready and dodges to the side. They continue this dance, Walt getting in a few nicks but nothing more until Bellamy’s voice drifts from the distance.

“Over here!” She calls loudly in reply, but her one moment of distraction costs her. Walt manages to get a hand on her arm and pull her toward him, knife coming to rest against the vulnerable skin of her throat. She has a flashback of Murphy’s hot breath in her ear as he’d held her the same way only a week ago, and she resolves to never be in this position again.

Bellamy breaks through the trees flanked by Miller and Monroe, the pair with rifles aimed, and stops dead at the sight before him. Clarke’s eyes lock with his for a moment before he turns his attention to Walt.

“Let her go,” The command comes out like gravel, Bellamy’s voice low and dangerous. He has his hatchet in one hand and a rifle slung over his broad shoulder, the picture of a warrior. 

“Bellamy Blake, the Rebel Leader, coming to rescue the Princess Bitch? Never thought I’d see the day. I’m afraid I can’t do that, though. I haven’t even had the chance to taste this one,” The words are accompanied by a wet lick to the skin of her cheek, and a whimper escapes Clarke before she can stifle it. She feels the knife bite into her neck as Walt holds her tighter, using her as a shield so that none of the guard can get a clear shot. 

“I swear to God, do that again and I will rip your tongue out of your head,” Bellamy thunders, hefting his hatchet a little higher. 

“But not before I slit her throat. Face it Bellamy: your perfect princess is going to die by my hand. Should I let her say goodbye?”

The pressure against her throat loosens for just a moment, but it’s all Clarke needs. She goes slack, allowing her dead weight to pull her to the floor. Bellamy’s hatchet is suddenly flying through the air and it strikes Walt, who tumbles to the forest floor. Bellamy is there to heft him up with a hand around his neck, having tossed Walt’s knife to Miller.

“If you ever come near her again, I will kill you, slowly and painfully. Do you understand?” Bellamy’s voice is steel, and Walt nods frantically. Bellamy releases him and Walt skitters back into the trees.

“Bellamy,” Clarke croaks, arms crossed in front of her chest. He strides toward her, shrugging off his jacket to drape around her. He hoists her up into his arms and makes his way towards camp. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the drop ship, ignoring the whispers around them, and bellows for everyone to get out. He places her on their makeshift operating table and finally meets her eyes.

“Clarke,” his voice cracks on her one syllable name, and he gathers her into his arms. She sighs and sniffs, allows herself a moment to process, and then the torrent opens. She cries out her fear and her relief, feels Bellamy doing the same on her shoulder. They cling to each other in the swirl of emotions they both feel until Clarke feels her eyes drooping from exhaustion.

“Bellamy, I’m so tired,” she sighs.

“Yeah, well, a near death experience will do that to you,” he replies.

She rolls her eyes, and almost feels normal from the only slightly forced banter, “Shut up and carry me to my tent.”

“And leave you there alone. Not a chance in hell, princess. You’re sleeping in my tent where I can keep an eye on you,” Bellamy declares, scooping her up once more.

Clarke wonders at the way he says her nickname. For Walt, it had been dripping with disdain and bitterness, hatred and anger, but Bellamy says it like a caress, soft and loving, warm and affectionate. 

They enter his tent and Bellamy lowers them both to the bed. He pulls the covers overtop of them and Clarke lays her head on Bellamy’s chest, determined to rest for a moment before she has to put herself together again.


End file.
